


Colorado Sunrise

by GoBeyondProblematic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Episode 10.12, Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Rape Fantasy, Sibling Incest, You Have Been Warned, square: totally problematic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoBeyondProblematic/pseuds/GoBeyondProblematic
Summary: Sam wakes with a violent jerk, his knees colliding with the steering wheel of the Impala. With a bitten back curse and clenched teeth, he tries to shift so no part of his body is aching anymore, which proves to be much harder than expected. At least all the shuffling has taken care of his boner. Even though it has happened a few times over the years, Sam can never get used to Dean seeing him like this. Or, to be more specific, he can’t stand the aftermath, all the times where Sam’s mind screamed for a glance, for a touch, but Dean just made a lewd joke and moved on, not paying Sam more mind than usual.One way or another, traveling with Dean has always been torture.Seeing Dean young again has a very unexpected effect on Sam.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 177
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Colorado Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> What did I do during quarantine? Watching 12 seasons of Supernatural of course. I am not okay, thank you for asking. 
> 
> So anyway, this happened somewhere in between and now you all have to suffer with me. Just because I'm 10 years late to this fandom(and I don't even have Starbucks) doesn't mean I won't write porn about it. If you want, listen to [the title song of this fic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXesMK5TXpU) or [alternatively, this one ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8tyehOb5dE) to vibe with me. 
> 
> Shoutout to Tazz <3, because she never fails to encourage me. I don't know what I'd ever do without you. Probably just leave all the German words in lol

Sam dreams about Dean again.

On the edge of his consciousness, he knows that Dean is right there next to him, napping in the front seat of the Impala and that the persistent ache in his neck comes from him trying to sleep behind the steering wheel. But in his dreams, the colors are bright, and he thinks he smells leather, steel, and beer. The smell of his childhood. Dean is not to his right, but underneath him, glaring up at him with a blush on his face and defiance in his eyes. His teenage body is so small, so breakable under Sam’s own huge frame, and every inch he towers over him sends a shiver down Sam’s spine. 

Goosebumps cover Dean’s arm. He’s already so far gone, caught in between eagerness and that peculiar oversensitivity of youth, a burning and agonizing feeling Sam only remembers vaguely. But it suits him, turns him from an awkward fumbling boy into something far more beautiful, serene even. Sam can’t resist trailing his hands down his side and toying with the hem of his worn-out Metallica band shirt. The gasp he elicits makes his dick twitch in his jeans and he thrusts down on Dean’s thigh before he can even think of stopping himself. Dean’s fingers are buried in his hair, his other hand clutching his hip like he’s afraid Sam will just get up and leave him, panting and frustrated on the messy twin-sized bed. 

But Sam couldn’t tear himself free even if he wanted to. The compulsion to touch is too strong, moving his limbs without his own volition, pushing up Dean’s shirt, and exposing the bony rib cage underneath. He leans down until his lips graze his brother’s cheeks, and Dean turns his head for a kiss, wet and unskillful, but addicting nonetheless. He is pretty sure he could do this all day, just teach him all the right moves, how to keep his cool. He’d be satisfied just to map out the inside of Dean’s mouth with his tongue, to learn all the little things that make his breath hitch and his heart stutter. 

However, the notion is futile, because Dean is impatient and he presses up against Sam, the outline of his erection noticeable even through the thick denim of both of their jeans. God, the things he wants to do to him. Without meaning to, he imagines sinking into Dean, burying himself between his thighs, making him twist and turn and beg in raw and broken moans. 

The thought almost drives him insane, and it isn’t helping that one of Dean’s hands is sneaking down to cup his ass to increase the friction, mindlessly rubbing against Sam. His desperation is enough to make Sam’s mouth water. As an adult, Dean is always tense, the years of holding himself back written tightly into his body. But at fourteen years old, he is pliant in Sam’s arms, and Sam watches in fascination as his expression shifts and contorts in pleasure. 

Heat builds between them, and Sam knows he should take this slower, he should probably make this last. But Dean’s urgency is contagious and he is grinding down on his thigh, feverish with want, while his lips keep searching for Dean’s, wants his body to swallow him up until they’re one single entity made up of desire. He is embarrassingly close. His only saving grace is that Dean isn’t any better off, his hips moving frantically, fingers digging into his skin. Sam wants to see him fall apart under him, wants his moans to break, and his world falls apart into fragments of _need it, need Dean, just a little bit more, closer, closer, closer -_

______

Sam wakes with a violent jerk, his knees colliding with the steering wheel of the Impala. With a bitten back curse and clenched teeth, he tries to shift so no part of his body is aching anymore, which proves to be much harder than expected. At least all the shuffling has taken care of his boner. Even though it has happened a few times over the years, Sam can never get used to Dean seeing him like this. Or, to be more specific, he can’t stand the aftermath, all the times where Sam’s mind screamed for a glance, for a touch, but Dean just made a lewd joke and moved on, not paying Sam more mind than usual. 

One way or another, traveling with Dean has always been torture 

When he looks over to him now, he’s still sleeping undisturbed, his head and hands twisted into an impossible position. Outside, the sun is just starting to rise, and the twilight casts deep dark shadows on Dean’s face that make him look much older. Or exactly as old as he is, even though his face is smooth and hairless right now and he hasn’t fully grown into his features. The witch's spell may have vanished the hard lines around Dean’s mouth and eased the sadness in his gaze, it might even have erased the Mark of Cain, but in the morning light, Sam can still see the ghosts of nightmares on his face and the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

Sam tries to remember if this was how they woke up when they were kids, except that it was John stretching out his arms behind the wheel and not Sam, but he comes up empty. Rationally, he knows there must have been countless mornings like this, mornings where he saw Dean move in his nightmares and got angry at his dad, at the world, for making them go through this. But he can’t recall details, just the searing feeling of pain when he thinks about the injustice of it all. How he wanted to be with Dean, to touch him even then, and never got close enough to pacify the longing burning in his chest. 

_____

The first time he jerked off, it was late at night and Sam couldn’t sleep. He’d had these kinds of thoughts before, and had played with the possibility of touching himself _there_ more than once. But somehow, the timing had never been right, something had always been missing. But that night, he’d caught Dean straight from the shower, and he could still imagine vividly how a few stray drops of water slowly made their way down his body. Sam had wanted to follow them with his fingers, burning with the question if Dean’s skin would taste like the soap they used. And now, long after Dean had fallen asleep in the twin bed across from him, he still couldn’t shake the vision of his hip bones vanishing under the old yellow towel he had wrapped around his hips earlier. He was still so close. Only a few steps separated them and if Sam really wanted to, he could cross the room and touch Dean in a few short seconds. 

The certainty made his breath deepen and he felt his pulse pick up at the prospect of letting his hands glide over Dean’s arms, his shoulders, his back. How Dean’s weight would feel atop of him, or how he’d feel below him. He was a lot bigger than Sam, certainly, but Sam was sure if he really tried, he could make Dean’s breath quicken and his pulse beat hard under his hands. And he wanted it, wanted to be the reason his brother lost his composure, forgot how to walk and to talk and all of his attitude and just surrendered. 

Without thinking too much about it, Sam pressed the heel of his palm against his crotch, trying to ease the pull. He was relatively certain that jerking off next to his own brother while thinking lewd things about him was considered fucked up even by the most liberal of standards. And still, lying in the dark, listening to the rise and fall of Dean’s breathing, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to grind against him just the way he slowly thrust into his hands now, how warm Dean would be in his arms. 

His hands snuck under the hem of his pajama shorts and he touched himself, furiously thinking of the hitches in Dean’s breath and how he would thrust back against him. And when he came he bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. 

Things haven’t really changed since. 

_____

When Sam looks at Dean now, he feels the same mindless desire stirring inside of him he has felt for most of his life. It shouldn’t surprise him, because he has wanted Dean in any possible way he can imagine - in the mornings with half-lidded eyes, a trail of saliva still visible on his chin. Dirty and sweating while digging up a grave. Euphoric, pumped with adrenaline after a perfect shot. Sam has dreamed of Dean looking at him with badly hidden pain in his eyes or grinning widely, letting Sam see the half-chewed content of his mouth. Raging or fighting or with a strange serenity in his eyes as he sinks a knife to the hilt into a ghoul, there is no version of reality where he is not utterly taken in by Dean. 

But something about this, about seeing him vulnerable, makes Sam’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat. The need to touch his brother is like an itch under his skin, persistent and he can never quite reach it, never find satisfaction. He can’t pinpoint what it is exactly - maybe the promise of seeing Dean before he closed himself off completely, before he decided feelings and emotions were “girlish” and “for losers, anyway” and buried them somewhere deep down where they slowly grew and festered and when they finally broke free they cast a cruel and merciless shadow over Dean’s face that scares and excites Sam at the same time. 

Or maybe it's simpler than that - maybe, he thinks, the taste of guilt on his tongue as his eyes gaze over Dean’s narrow hips and the dent in his jeans where his cock presses against the denim. It would be so easy to have him now. He still remembers vividly with what ease Dean was pushed around on their last hunt, and he knows that if he really wanted, right now, there would be no way for Dean to escape him.

The thought makes him sick. 

Sam forces himself to look away, to stare straight ahead. Outside of the window, the grass is still wet with morning dew, and the tall trees of the Colorado landscape rise up in the distance. Over the horizon, the sun is still rising, a faint golden shimmer at the edge of a blue-greyish sky. 

Moments like these remind him of this time all those years ago when they were still trying to stop the apocalypse. He had been angry then, oh so angry, and every morning he would lie awake and listen to the echo of his dreams, the rage and power whispering into his ear, making his blood sing sweetly. The promise of possibility had been so close then, close enough that he just had to stretch his fingers to finally grasp it. 

Dean is less than one arm length away from him. He wishes he could. In fact, he isn’t sure if he ever wanted something this badly in his life. To feel Dean’s skin under his fingertips, all soft and not yet worn out from years of rough living, to trace the few stray hairs already growing on his upper lip. Sam knows they look ridiculous, but at the same time they’re taunting him, daring him to touch them, to trace Dean’s luscious mouth underneath and map its shape with his tongue. Just like in his dream. He can’t forget the pants and breathless moans his brother made, making him long for it all over again. His cock stirs in his pants even though his erection just faded. 

Feverishly, he wishes for a way to get some of the pressure off. He could vanish in the woods and jerk himself off, quick and dirty, and hope for the best. But if he is honest he knows he’ll just be frustrated because the next time he sees his brother it will start all over again. He doesn’t need to get laid. He needs Dean.

The longing that usually smolders inside of him is now a blazing fire, consuming him with its flames until there is nothing left but Dean’s name. 

Usually, Sam thinks of himself as a reasonably self-restrained person. He has his moments, the ones where he is scared for Dean or where the rage grows so strong he forgets how to be anything else. But he always managed to restrain himself when it came to his desires, always turned around in the appropriate moments and kept his eyes from wandering. It hurt, and sometimes he felt like it would drive him insane, but it worked. But now, with the possibility of physical punishment out of the way, Sam finds that his fingers twitch around the steering wheel, and he’s grinding his jaw in a desperate attempt to swallow his feelings down again. 

Next to him, Dean moves, leans heavier against the Impala’s door and his arm falls to his side, so his torso is exposed to Sam’s hungry eyes. They trail over his collar bones and the slight rise of his chest, the fall of his rib cage. And Sam wants, wants it so badly. 

Maybe, if he’s quick, he can- Sam shoves the thought away as fast as he possibly can. No, he can’t do that. At this point, it’s not even his own morals keeping him from doing it but the creeping realization that when he starts, he won’t be able to stop anymore. The desire burns too hot in his veins, making him itch with the need to do something, anything. Breathing in deeply, Sam wills himself to let go of the steering wheel and relax his tense muscles. He should get up, get out of the car. Brush his teeth, eat, and get something for Dean too, while he’s at it. They need to make it to the next town today, somewhere with adequate internet connection and a decent library so they can start on reversing the spell that hit Dean. 

Sam doesn’t know how much longer he can resist. 

Just as he wants to open the door, however, Dean stretches and blinks through tired, distant eyes. His shirt has ridden up and Sam can see a small slip of his pale skin. It’s white, so white, and knowing that no one ever touched it makes Sam’s hands shake. 

“Hey,” Dean says. His voice is still hoarse from sleep and he looks like he has no idea where they are or why they’re here. One of his hands comes up to his face to rub the sleep away, but it doesn’t seem to work. Instead, he flinches when he feels his smooth skin under his palm. “Not a nightmare then.” 

Sam shakes his head even though Dean isn’t even looking at him. But the truth is, he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. He has watched his brother wake up almost all his life, knows his grumpy morning mood and how he sounds when his nightmares bleed into the morning. There is nothing Dean could do that would be foreign to him. But still. His physical age makes his movements look so easy, so innocent, without the added weight of decades and decades of pain and suffering. 

“Something wrong?” Dean asks. Sam can’t decide if he is unusually perceptive or if he is just beyond all subtlety. There is so much wrong right now, Sam doesn’t even know where to start. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” He knows he sounds haunted, but he can’t suppress the reverberation of his feelings, which threaten to swallow him whole, never spitting him out again. He doesn’t know where to look, his eyes trailing back to Dean every time he manages to tear himself away. His fingers flex unconsciously.

From there, things blur together. He doesn’t know when he makes the decision to throw all caution overboard, or if he decides at all - he might as well just get swept away by the power of his own want, by the seductive quality of Dean being completely unaware of himself, of what he does to Sam. 

It’s supposed to be no more than a short touch, the ghost of one, really. Just fingertips grazing against the hem of Dean’s shirt, just a split second of bliss. It’s not even a conscious action, but his deepest desires finding a will of their own, moving his body without him having a say in it. He watches with wide eyes as he touches the fabric. Somewhere, seemingly far away he processes the texture of cotton and the softness of Dean’s skin. With their new found life, his fingers close around the curve of Dean’s hipbone, hard edge against his palm, fitting there perfectly as if it has been waiting to be covered by him.

Dean follows his movements with his eyes, trailing behind him almost lazily. His gaze is filled with a strange sort of caution, one Sam has rarely seen on him. It’s fragile, so different than Dean usually acts.

Outside, the sun comes up behind the trees, chasing away the darkness of the sky and tinting the both of them in soft, dim light. It falls on Dean’s face, highlighting his cheeks, which haven’t lost the plumpness of youth yet. He is so beautiful in this moment that Sam’s heart hurts with it, the pain making it impossible to breathe. 

They don’t look away from each other, not even as Sam tightens his grip on Dean’s hip in a possessive gesture, fingernails digging into denim and skin. They’re somewhere in-between, in between day and night, touch and distance, passion and rejection. Sam can’t comprehend why Dean has not pushed him away yet, but he is determined to take what he can get, even if right now it is just the illusion of reciprocation. 

He wants - and at the same time doesn’t - to just lean over, use his weight to press Dean against the leather of the seat, to breathe him in and see the red morning light reflected in his eyes. Sam is fully prepared to let go, to straighten his wrinkled shirt and start the ignition just to have something to do, when Dean surprises him, catches him utterly off guard as he follows Sam’s hand, shrinking the gap between them until there are only a few inches between them both. His hand comes up, hesitant at first, but then he swallows and the lines on his mouth deepen. Sam can almost hear him telling himself to man up, right before Dean grabs him by the collar of his jacket and pulls him down. 

Sam follows willingly because he will always be where Dean wants to have him. There’s a short moment of insecurity, when he doesn’t know what will happen, scared that Dean will just punch him and get out of the car, leaving Sam to watch the sunrise and regret his own weakness. 

Then their lips meet, and he forgets everything else. 

Half pushing, half being pulled he slides over the bench, trapping Dean between himself and the car door. With one hand, he holds himself upright, the other trails up Dean’s torso, over his slender waist and the outline of his ribs through the clothing, coming to rest just under his jaw, fingers cupping his cheek. Dean leans in, adds to the pressure, and they’re really kissing. 

There is no way hell Sam could have anticipated how it would feel. He has kissed people before. Enough people to know how it works, to get the fine tuning. But this is different. There is no refinement in their first kiss, just pure need. They’re desperately trying to catch each other, lips scraping. Dean’s face is devoid of his usual stubble, so Sam just feels skin when his fingers press into the soft flesh, turning Dean’s head upwards to bring them closer together. 

It doesn’t take long until Dean opens his mouth and licks over Sam’s bottom lip. It’s a question, one Sam understands without any words, and he hurries to comply. 

Arousal shoots through his veins as soon as their tongues meet, drowning out every other feeling despite the pleasure of finally, finally touching Dean, of being wanted. He is on fire, melting but still holding on, consumed by the strength of his own desire. Dean is so fragile in his arms, but his kiss doesn’t lack determination or passion. His body is but a memory, something distant Sam remembers from a lifetime ago, but the force behind his movements is the same that it has been since he broke into Sam’s house ten years ago with a cocky grin and bad news in tow. 

Dean still is bad news, but Sam couldn’t care less. He longs for every ounce of trouble he will bring. 

Because Sam’s eyes are closed, he doesn’t see the push coming, can only gasp for air in surprise when his back hits the leather of the backrest. Dean is on him before he can process what is happening, knees on either side of Sam’s thighs, bowing his head down to him and catching his bottom lip between his teeth, biting him. 

Momentarily, Sam is scared he is losing his mind. Dean is above him, and he is so small, but stronger than he looks, and he is manhandling Sam with such confidence, the rush of it is making his heart stutter in his chest. On top of him, he looks even smaller. Sam’s body could probably swallow him up, fuse them together until he couldn’t discern anymore where he ends and Dean begins. But he doesn’t want to, not when Dean runs his fingers through the very same hair he usually calls “girly”, and tugs at it until Sam gives into the movement. 

Teeth sink into the sensitive flesh right behind his ears, the pain so sharp it yanks Sam back to reality, just in time. Dean’s pelvis rocks against his torso, his hard cock easy to make out even through the thick fabric of his jeans. Mouth watering, Sam shakes off his self proclaimed passivity, grabs his hips and does it again, revelling in the moan that follows. Nails scrape over his neck as Dean grinds against him, his face already flushed by pleasure. His young features are so open for Sam to read, his own desire mirrored in his eyes, the feral spark that inspires Dean to leave a trail of marks from his neck down to his shoulders. His hands are still fisted in his hair, directing Sam however he wants while he grinds against him. The shirt he wears does nothing to hide his heaving chest, and distinctly Sam remembers his earlier comment about his overactive teenage libido. 

Chances are that Dean won’t last long like this, since he probably woke up from his dreams horny and close to coming anyway. And Sam really can’t wait to see it happen, wants Dean to lose even the last pitiful traces of his self control. 

Despite being haunted by the need to get more, faster, he makes himself move without haste, drags his fingertips over Dean’s back, his ass, his thighs, travelling up to his stomach, feeling the hardness of muscle there, before finally dropping down and pressing against Dean’s raging hard on with the palm of his hand. The added pressure coaxes another moan from Dean and his hips buck up against Sam involuntarily. When their eyes meet, the desperation in Dean’s gaze is almost enough to throw all technicalities overboard and just take whatever he can get. Then Dean rubs against him, but his face is distorted, somewhere between pleasure and something else entirely. 

“Sammy,” Dean rasps in a voice that has not yet reached its full depth. “Sam, don’t, I’m-” He throws his head back, teeth clenched and obviously trying to hold on to himself. In the early morning light, he looks almost angelic like this, with golden light shining through the windows, tainting his silhouette grey against the glass. It’s beautiful, really, more so than Sam has ever seen, almost too much for him, being as crude as he is. 

“Fuck.” Sam can’t help but curse. “Want to see you Dean, wanna see you come for me. Wanted to since I knew what it was.” The encouragement drives Dean on further. His movements are getting uncoordinated and Sam decides to help out by popping the button of his jeans and sneaking his hands in between the layers of fabric. There’s a small wet spot, and Sam revels in the knowledge that Dean is oh so ready for him. 

His fingers close around Dean's shaft through the cloth, and while Dean nibbles his ear, and holds on to his shoulders for dear life, he tugs. One, two, three, four times, and then Dean's forehead sinks against his, arms instinctively coming up to his shoulders to hug him, to keep him close. And Sam, who can never deny Dean anything for long, lets himself be hugged, their eyes trying to make out the other from a distance that is way too close. And then Dean comes. 

It happens with the intensity of a first time, of _their_ first time, letting out a sound that is more like a sob than Dean will ever admit to as long as he lives and probably even longer than that. A state of pure bliss is written all over his face, hand in Sam's hair, as close together as is possible in the confeints of the Impala. 

He loves every second of it. Religioulously commits it to memory, because he knows he will never forgive himself if he forgets even one tiny detail. Not after he’s waited for so long. 

Above him, Dean rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm while Sam watches in fascination how the denim turns a darker shade of blue where his come seeps into the fabric. _Because of him_ , his mind supplies, _this is because of him_. He made this happen. 

His cock is painfully hard in his pants and he feels like he is going to explode if he doesn’t get to touch himself, _right the fuck now_. His hands sneak in between their bodies, trying to undo the button of his jeans. Dean stops him halfway, catching his wrists. “No,” he rasps, voice hoarse with sleep and sex, “let me.” 

Somehow, in a way that escapes Sam completely, he manages to fold himself into the space between the seat and the dashboard, kneeling before him. Sam’s breath catches when he realizes what Dean is trying to do, watching speechless as Dean opens up his fly with nimble fingers and works to free his dick from his boxers with single-minded focus. It looks obscene to have him kneel before him, lanky and thin, framed by the thick muscles of Sam’s thighs. The early morning sunlight shines into Sam’s eyes and he has to close them, bathing in the warm rays while he feels Dean’s hands trail up his calves, leaning closer until he can feel his brother’s breath on him. 

His cock twitches in anticipation, and then a quick and clever tongue licks a stripe from the base of his shaft up to the tip, testing the length. Sam nearly comes right then and there, only held back by his need to see Dean’s pretty little lips stretched around his cock. He wonders if Dean can take it, if it will strain him too much. But he also knows his brother is not a quitter. 

Slowly, he blinks through the sunlight down to where Dean closes his fist around his cock, giving it a first tentative tug. It shouldn’t excite Sam this much to imagine this is Dean’s first time, that he has no idea what he’s doing, experimenting but eager to please. He toys with the thought of having Dean choking around him, feeling the constraints of his throat, the convulsion of muscle. Even though he knows Dean is probably more than capable of handling anything Sam has to offer, he longs to see him struggle, longs to see his innocent face ruined with tears and spit. 

Then Dean sucks him into his mouth. The heat around him is a shock, his hips bucking up, causing Dean to back off again. “Easy there, tiger.” But Sam can’t obey him. His hands seek for purchase in Dean’s short hair, impatiently pressing him down again. He thinks he can hear a quiet laugh before his brother is on him again, sinking onto his cock inch by inch. 

His lips are stretched incredibly wide, trying to take all of Sam's girth as he’s working his way down, fingers dancing over Sam’s jeans as he tries to relax around the intrusion. The tightness around Sam is almost too much, he is starting to sweat just from the desperate effort not to come, biting the inside of his cheeks as he watches Dean. Finally, he has reached his limit, almost all the way down to the base, fingers covering the rest. His tongue is pressed to the underside of his shaft, and as he moves upwards, it drags deliciously over his sensitive skin. 

Sam can see Dean looking up at him through his lashes. Sam rests his hand on his cheek as he moves, fascinated by how big his own body is compared to Dean. What a miracle it is that they’re here right now, together. He wonders if Dean has thought about this before, if he dreams about Sam. Will it be the same once Dean gets his body back, or will they pin this on the madness of their unusual circumstances? 

The thought hurts more than he wants to admit. 

Thankfully, Dean has adjusted to him and sets to his task, his tongue mapping every inch of Sam, before he hollows his cheeks and sucks, gliding down on Sam’s cock, forgetting all insecurity and caution. There’s nothing Sam can do but to cling to Dean like a lifeline. Dean’s free hand lingers on his hip, a reminder to stay still, and even though it’s hard, he is happy to oblige. 

Dean sinks down deep. He moans, only realizing it when he hears the sound echo in his ears, desperate and vulgar. Despite being almost fully dressed, he feels more naked than he ever has, as if all of his desires are laid bare in the light of the rising sun. But then, they probably are. Dean is like an epiphany, made of every single daydream Sam ever tried to forget, every ounce of shame he felt after coming all over himself while swallowing his brother’s name. 

He won’t last long like this. As much as he tells himself to draw it out just a bit longer, he is driven by the same desire as Dean, hollowed out by all of these many years of denial. Squinting his eyes against the sun, he watches Dean move, quickly but without haste, cheeks hollow, face flushed. Following a sudden impulse, he pulls Dean up by the collar of his shirt. “Not like this.” 

His brother’s breath catches in his throat as he awkwardly climbs onto the seat next to Sam. 

He is hard again. The thought is like an electric shock, causing him to press his nails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from finishing himself in a few quick strokes. Dean’s eyes gleam mischievously as he pops open the bottom of his pants and frees himself from his boxers. “Like this?” he asks, knowing full well this is not at all what Sam intended. 

But he might as well roll with it. Greedily, he watches as Dean takes himself in hand and slowly strokes himself. His breath is coming in hard pants, eyes clouded as he looks at Sam, daring him to protest as he jerks himself off. He grins at Sam before his head tips back, eyes closing for one short moment before he seems to think better of himself and crawls closer, kissing him again. 

Sam can taste his own pre-come on his tongue, moaning again, and then Dean swings a leg over his thigh and brings their cocks together. Even the slight touch is almost too much, every nerve in his body alight with want. Dean’s hand slips between them, trying to enhance the pressure. It’s not enough, his hand isn’t quite big enough, and so Sam closes his fingers around them, tight and hot, and they’re moving, Dean thrusting forward and Sam matches him with an ungraceful motion that has them both gasping, holding each other. Sam’s arm lies snug around Dean’s waist, supporting him while Dean’s hand is clasping his neck as if to bring him in for a kiss. Their rhythm is hypnotic, both of them unable to do anything but feel the friction of their cocks sliding together, slicked by sweat and come, staring into each other’s eyes. Sam’s entire world narrows down to Dean’s face, Dean’s breath against his cheek, his weight on his leg. This is where they belong, how they’re meant to be. Every second of their lives led up to this single moment in time, Dean in his arms. 

“Fuck, Sammy.” 

It could have been minutes, hours, years. Somewhere down the line, he has forgotten where he ends and where Dean begins, and when he speaks, he feels the vibrations inside of him. He wants to come so badly, every cell of his body is hurting with it. The need pulls at him with every beat of his heart, each rushed exhale. He is so close he can almost taste it. 

“Let go, Sam.” Dean is leaning forwards, lips close to his ear. “I gotcha. Lemme see you.” 

The words push him over the edge and he comes, eyes falling shut as sensation overwhelms him. His body shudders violently as he spills over their hands, a choked sob on his lips. He has no control over himself anymore, is swept away by the intensity of it all. “Yeah, just like that,” Dean whispers, but Sam is only dimly aware of his brother’s frantic movements as he comes too, his name falling from his lips like a prayer. 

_____

It takes a long time for them to finally come down again. They’re a tangle of limbs, their clothes covered in come, breathing heavily into each other. When Sam lifts his head, he can see the last traces of pink disappear on the horizon. He closes his eyes and basks in the light until Dean gets restless on top of him and rolls himself off. 

Their eyes meet. The moment is tense and fragile like the smallest misstep will break them in two. Sam runs a hand through his hair, for once at a loss of what to say. Nothing seems good enough to break the silence, the truce between them. Dean still looks like he did in high school, and while the bone deep satisfaction of good sex sinks into him, he realizes there is no coming back from this. No witty remark, no heart-to-heart can possibly describe how many layers of messed up this is. Or how little Sam can bring himself to regret it. Because this is Dean, and he will always want him. The good, the bad, the ugly. The fucked out eyes or the bad drunken jokes. Needing Dean is part of him like a second skin, staying with him wherever he goes, whatever he does. It’s the one thing that never changes. 

Surprisingly, it is Dean who pulls himself together first. “Didn’t take you for a kinky guy.” It could have been an accusation but he winks, and then strips out of his dirty shirt, crumpling it up between his hands. “If you get any of this on the leather, you’ll clean it up all on your own.” 

Sam opens his mouth to respond, even if he has no idea what exactly he wants to say, when his stomach growls loudly. He looks down on himself in surprise, not believing his own body would betray him in a moment like this. When he looks up again, he sees the corners of Dean’s mouth twitch - and just like that the spell is broken. 

They laugh, loud and hearty, chasing the silence and the guilt away. Sam feels giddy with it, hands dragging over his face to regain some of his composure, but every time he stops, Dean starts again and he forgets why he wanted to pull a serious face in the first place.

“Breakfast?” He asks hopefully, once both of them finally catch their breath, still shaking and grinning widely at each other. 

“Thought you’d never ask.” Dean grabs for their duffels and hands them both a clean shirt. He looks ridiculous in it and shoots Sam a dirty look when he rounds the car to ride shotgun, but Sam can still see the ease in his shoulders and the warmth in his gaze. It’s the same as it was fifteen years ago and just like always it doesn’t fail to reassure him. 

He turns up the radio, choosing a station he knows Dean hates on purpose and then fires up the car. They drive away, leaving the sunrise behind. 

There’s a new day ahead of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, please drop me a line (or an emoji) and come find me @[sluttymic](https://twitter.com/sluttymic)


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